


Four-Leaf Clovers

by whatthefoucault



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Coffee, Gen, Planet Of The Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:06:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benton makes some of the best coffee in the history of the entire planet.  This is the story of his education.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four-Leaf Clovers

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story came about on an idle Tuesday on my way to work. I then spent the next three days accidentally binge-listening to Tears For Fears' "Head Over Heels" and this came out. There may be subtext in there, if you like subtext.
> 
> * * *

  
It seemed as though all the ladies of the village had by some logistical miracle crammed themselves into his mother’s modest sitting room, as though it were the most important social event of the season, rather than an idle Sunday afternoon.  John Benton, all skinny arms and legs and that little gap of nobbly knees that poked out beneath his shorts and above his Sunday best socks, and just barely able to reach the kitchen counter-top on his tippy-toes, watched his mother work her magic.

“The real secret is patience,” she instructed, as she levelled precise spoonfuls of fragrant, deep brown powder into the press.  “Patience, and respect.  Two minutes or ten minutes, it won’t be any stronger.  Leaving it a little longer makes it rich, smooths out the acid.  It’s not so bitter.”

John nodded.  Coffee was not a drink for growing boys, but his mother’s precise methods fascinated him, and he loved to spend days off watching her in her element, imparting little grains of wisdom as she went.  It was in the kitchen that John’s mother seemed to find a sense of peace, of happiness.

“There,” she said, pouring a little of the dark elixir with a flourish into a chipped egg cup, “have a sip, love.  See?  Not half bad, is it?”

“Mhmm,” nodded John, cradling the little cup in his hands.  “Can I have another?”

“Careful now, you’ll stunt your growth,” smiled his mother.  “Now be a dear and take those cups out for the ladies, off you go.”

John liked to stay close to his mother after the accident, and even closer after the war.  All they had was each other, after all; she needed him to look after her.  His aunt came round sometimes, made little cups of hot tea, and assured his mother of good fortunes to come, and his mother would smile, in that polite way that you did when you did not wish to be rude, but did not feel hopeful.

“Tea leaves don’t lie, my honey,” Auntie would tell her while John sat cross-legged in the corner, idly scribbling in his notebooks and pretending not to be listening to the grown-ups.  “Your fortunes are destined to improve, you’ll see.”

\---

The year he turned eighteen, John and his mother had scraped together enough savings to take the family on a week’s summer holiday in Rome.  His sister was of the age where the prospect of marching through dull galleries and museums left her decidedly grumpy, but she delighted in riding behind her brother on their hired scooter through the narrow streets, and devouring all the exotic fruited pastries, colourful little cakes, and fried things filled with cream that she could get her greedy prepubescent hands on.

The smell of the bar was dark and inviting, and radiated out into the street, well beyond the little community of metal tables and wicker chairs that dotted the sidewalk.  Inside sat two girls of about John’s age, wearing bright dresses and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, nodding in time with the playful jazz music on the turntable, whispering to each other in their secret language.

The many and various words the Italians had for coffee were baffling to John — the only Italian words he had learned to speak were “ _ciao_ ” and “ _sono inglese_ ,”  and if the girls in their sunglasses and pretty dresses waving and giggling were any indication, he was probably not even saying those correctly — but he seemed to know enough to indicate that he wanted three coffees, and the handsome baristas seemed to know enough to serve his sister a little espresso topped with a scoop of ice cream.  He was certain he should have been more interested in the girls, but his attention returned without fail to those dark, charming young men with their complicated coffee machines, expertly pulling and pouring seemingly infinite variations on coffee.  It seemed to John as though Rome were a city of nothing but impossibly handsome men, and he felt even more awkward than usual by comparison - too gawky and too quiet and too pale, with arms and legs that had had a tendency to grow faster than his coordination was able to keep up with - as he watched them behind the bar, swirling seemingly effortless hot-milk hearts atop endless cappuccinos and macchiatos. Indeed, he would no doubt have rebuked his sister for batting her eyelashes precociously at all the baristas — who in turn addressed her as “beautiful lady” in their charmingly broken English — had he not been too transfixed himself to notice.

“Are you taking notes, John?” His mother smiled, breaking his reverie.

“What?” he blushed, flustered.  “Umm, no.”

“Maybe you should,” she mused, dabbing politely at the foam on her upper lip with a napkin.  “Bring a bit of la dolce vita back to boring old Wiltshire.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, quietly.  “Maybe we should.”

He knew, of course, that they could get something nearly as good in back Soho anyway; he half suspected the artistry of those beautiful men with their complicated machines, like his mother’s sage caffeinated wisdom, would be lost on Wiltshire.

“ _L’antoccino ti piaci_?” grinned the man, elbows propped on the bar and leaning in just a little too far into John’s personal space.  
   
“My name’s John Benton,” he squeaked, flustered and certain that he was blushing beet-red.  “Er, _sono inglese_?”  
   
The man smiled with understanding, drawing a hand over his dark shadow of a beard.  
   
“English, _si_?  I’m only speak a little,” he explained with a slightly embarrassed smile. “What I say, it’s mean, this coffee, you like?”  
   
“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful.” John nodded enthusiastically.  “Almost as good as my mum makes.”  
   
The man seemed to think a moment then, then spoke something quickly and incomprehensible to his friend, who could not contain his laughter.  John blushed further then, like an entire field of beetroots, clamping an embarrassed hand over his mouth.  
   
“No, no, _fantastico, molto bene!_ ” laughed the man, taking John’s hand.  “We hope you have a good time, it’s nice, no?”  
   
“Yeah,” blushed John, wishing he could disappear into his tiny coffee cup as the girls giggled and whispered and tried - badly - not to look like they were listening.  “Thanks.”

\---

It was, supposed Private Benton, a mother’s duty to embarrass her son as he set forth to seek his fortune in the world.

“You’ve got to promise me you’ll be safe,” she said, straightening his lapels for the umpteenth time that morning.

“Steady on, Mum,” he sighed.  “I’m basically going to be answering phones and making cups of coffee, you know.”

“I know, love,” she said.  “And you’re going to do it so well. Remember, patience and respect.”

“I remember,” nodded Benton.

“Your father would be so proud of you,” she said, a trace of melancholy in her smile.

“Cheers, Mum.” He beamed, heaving his suitcase into the boot of his car.

\---

The situation was tense at UNIT HQ, to say the least, though this was not unusual. Sergeant Benton and his team had fought off an invading force of strange, wobbly creatures who called themselves the Rowntrees, but judging by their numbers, this was likely only a small reconnaissance team, and there was no way of knowing when they would return in greater force. By the time Benton entered his office, drinks tray in hand, the Brigadier was in the midst of one of his marathon telephone sessions, ordering this and coordinating that, and enduring the terrible music they played when you were on hold waiting to be put through to Geneva.

“Lethbridge-Stewart here,” the Brigadier grumbled into the telephone. “Well, I don’t care if you do have to build new tanks out of cardboard and chewing gum, I need you to give me all the tanks you have and I need them five minutes ago. No, when I say all the tanks you have, I don’t mean just if you’ve got time, if you’re not too terribly busy. The fate of the entire planet hangs in the balance! Oh, you can, can you? Very good, Captain. Carry on.”

He hung up the telephone with a heavy sigh. “Everything’s under control for the time being, but barely,” he said, rubbing tiredly at his temple. “I’ve not slept in thirty-six hours.”

“With all due respect, sir, you look like you could use a cup of coffee,” observed Benton, setting down a small milk glass mug of fresh coffee, two sugars and just a dot of warmed milk.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Sergeant, thank you,” replied the Brigadier, with what seemed to Benton to be the most heartfelt gratitude.

Sergeant Benton loved these little moments, the secret instant of pure delight that played across the Brigadier’s features as he took his first sip of coffee. He loved these quiet times dearly, when the Brigadier would lose himself, forget the world and the endless pageant of impossible crises that beset them one after another. It was beautiful to him.

The Brigadier possessed a charming sort of calm that he managed to retain even in the most dire of circumstances - notwithstanding that one night in the pub shortly after his divorce was finalized, and certain things that may have transpired that Benton promised never to speak to anyone, and Sergeant John Benton was nothing if not a man of his word.  Considering the number of impossible things they had seen since they first met the Doctor, Benton supposed that it should not have been surprising. Even sleepless, the Brigadier was unflappable, a consummate professional.

The faintest trace of a smile hinted at the Brigadier’s lips as he closed his eyes, and sighed in much needed relief. Benton felt privileged to bear witness to this moment, and to have been able to bring it about in the first place, to bring the Brigadier some little pleasure even in the midst of emergency. He could not help but beam in response. He felt as though he positively glowed.

“Are you going to stand there admiring your handiwork all day, Benton?” asked the Brigadier, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, no, sir,” he replied, straightening himself self-consciously.

“Very good,” said the Brigadier, with a conspiratorial smile.  “Carry on, Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Benton, as he left the room.

* * *


End file.
